by Funaro, Greg
“Hear, hear, now,” said Lord Dreary. “I think it’s high time you told the rest of us what you’re up to, Alistair. Your secrecy on the matter has been quite unsettling these last few weeks.”
“All good things to those who wait, old friend. As I’ve explained, if the prince should learn of my plan before we arrive, I assure you, it will mean the end for us all.”
Lord Dreary exchanged an exasperated look with Mrs. Pinch and dragged his handkerchief across his clammy bald head.
“But you can’t keep the Gallownog prisoner, Uncle,” Cleona said. “Gwendolyn will have to return to the engine room sooner or later. And when she does, her bubble of fairy dust will dissolve and he will escape.”
“I am well aware of that, Cleona. Which is why I intend to build a mechanical version of Gwendolyn’s prison bubble myself. In fact, ever since Master Grubb told me about your captivity in Nightshade’s castle, I’ve been tinkering with just such a contraption down in the engine room.”
“Cor blimey,” I gasped. Prince Nightshade had thrown me in a dungeon, but Cleona had been imprisoned in a sphere similar to the ones Father used to harness magical energy from his Odditoria—only the prince’s sphere was protected by a purple-and-red force field.
“You really think such a device will work, Alistair?” Lord Dreary asked.
“Of course it will,” Father said rather defensively. “If Prince Nightshade can make a spirit prison, so can I.”
“Please, Uncle,” Cleona said. “You’re making a grave mistake.”
“I should think if I were, you’d be wailing up a storm by now, wouldn’t you?”
Cleona sighed and dropped her eyes to the floor. We all understood what Father meant. As Cleona was a banshee attached to our family, if Father’s decision to take Lorcan Dalach prisoner had put our lives in danger, she would have foretold our doom and started wailing at once.
“But, Alistair,” said Lord Dreary, “you know better than anyone that the future can be altered by even the most insignificant decisions made in the present. What if the Gallownog’s presence here should influence something unforeseen? What if Cleona does start wailing?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“You’re all a bunch of lily-livered fools,” Gwendolyn said. “The safest course is to push the blighter out over the sea and be done with him.”
“Dalach was only doing his job,” Father said. “And so I cannot in good conscience destroy him when he could have so easily done the same to us. After all, he was on board for quite some time before he showed himself.”
Peeved, Gwendolyn flung more fairy dust at her bubble and then flew up to the lion’s head, where she plopped herself down on its nose and began to pout.
“As for you, Cleona,” Father said, “how many times these last twelve years have you bewailed my doom only to have it remedied by a simple change of plans?”
Sulking, Cleona turned her back on us, and I glanced over at the Gallownog. Surely, I thought, his animosity would boil over upon learning just how much she had interfered with Alistair Grim’s destiny over the years. Curiously, however, Dalach’s expression had changed. Gone was the cold hatred from his eyes, and in its place, what I could only describe as pity.
“So it’s settled, then,” Father said. “We’ll drop off the Gallownog on the Irish coast after we make our stop in England. Gwendolyn’s fairy dust will keep him occupied long enough for us to escape back over the sea. And then Nigel shall proceed with the—” Father glanced about the library. “Hang on. Where is Nigel?”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Mrs. Pinch, and she whispered something in his ear. In all the excitement, I too had failed to notice Nigel’s absence. Father was about to whisper something back, but then I sneezed.
“Achoo!”
“Blind me,” said Mrs. Pinch. “The Eye of Mars might be good for drying clothes, but it doesn’t stand a chance against the sniffles.”
Only then did I notice what Mrs. Pinch was talking about. Both Father’s clothes and mine were completely dry!
“All right, then,” Father said. “Cleona and Gwendolyn shall help me get our prisoner here down to the engine room. Lord Dreary, you accompany Mrs. Pinch and Grubb to the kitchen. I should think a bit of witch’s brew is just what the doctor ordered.”
And as if on cue, I sneezed again.
“Come along then, Grubb,” said Mrs. Pinch.
But as the old woman led me from the library, I glanced over my shoulder just in time to catch Lorcan Dalach smiling fondly at Cleona.
And much to my surprise, Cleona smiled back.
Mrs. Pinch clapped her hands and the kitchen sprang to life. Cupboards swung open of their own accord, pots and pans flew through the air, and all manner of ingredients began mixing themselves into a boiling cauldron upon the stove. Lord Dreary acted as Mrs. Pinch’s eyes, nodding his head and barking “too much of this” or “not enough of that,” and before I knew it, a bowl of steaming purple stew had been set before me on the table.
“Eat up, lad,” said Mrs. Pinch. “Last thing we need is a sick boy on our hands.”
The old woman sat down beside me and I spooned myself some stew. As with all of Mrs. Pinch’s cooking, it tasted delightful—not to mention that my sniffles disappeared almost at once.
“Well, is it good?” asked Mrs. Pinch. But before I could answer, Lord Dreary joined us at the table with two more bowls.
“Of course it’s good,” he said. “What would you expect from Penelope Pinch, Queen of Magical Cuisine?”
Penelope? I said to myself in disbelief. I’d never heard anyone call her that before. Mrs. Pinch tried to maintain an air of indifference, but as Lord Dreary smiled and slid her bowl of stew across the table, I could have sworn the old woman was blushing.
“That was a very reckless thing to do, Master Grubb,” she said, changing the subject. “Jumping into the water like that.”
Lord Dreary chuckled into his spoon. “Well, you know what they say. Like father, like son.”
“Blind me,” Mrs. Pinch chuckled back. “Heaven forbid Master Grubb should give me so much trouble at his age.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” I said, “but you knew Father as a child?”
“Of course I did. Why, I’ve served the Grims in one way or another since I was a girl of seventeen.”
“Cor blimey!” I exclaimed. “That must’ve been ages ago!”
Lord Dreary stifled a giggle, and Mrs. Pinch stiffened and pressed her lips together tightly. Clearly, I’d offended her.
“My apologies, ma’am,” I sputtered. “What I meant to say was, you’ve always been a…er, uh…” I wanted to say witch but was afraid of offending her again. Fortunately, at that moment Broom began tidying up the kitchen, so I just pointed to her instead.
“A witch?” said Mrs. Pinch, and I nodded. “Well, I suppose one is born with a knack for such things, but I didn’t formally take up the craft until after my husband died. Hunting accident, it was, not long after we were married.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that, ma’am.”
“Thank you, lad,” said Mrs. Pinch, her expression softening. “But that was a long, long time ago. Back then I was only a chambermaid at the Grims’ manor house in Hertfordshire. Mr. Grim’s grandfather was a collector of antiquities too, you see; and amongst his things I found a book of spells. Child’s play, really—love potions, sleeping charms, and whatnot—but over the years small things led to bigger things, and here I am.”
Mrs. Pinch smiled and spooned herself some stew.
“So the Grim gentlemen have always been sorcerers, ma’am?” I asked, and Mrs. Pinch nearly spit out her food.
“Good heavens, no!” she cried. “The Grims were all business back then and had very little regard for magic. Especially your grandfather.”
“Indeed,” said Lord Dreary. “Alistair’s father was a dear friend of mine, Grubb, but a bit too practical for his own good. His mind always on making
a profit when it should have been on spending time with his son.”
“Yes, a lonely lad poor Alistair was growing up,” said Mrs. Pinch. “But, as is often the case, chance intervened for the best. The master was about your age, Grubb, when he stumbled upon me in the midst of one of my spells. Of course, his father would’ve sacked me had he found out, but young Alistair never told a soul. And in return for his confidence, I took him under my wing and taught him everything I knew.”
“Cor blimey, ma’am,” I said. “You taught Alistair Grim how to do magic?”
“In the beginning, yes. But that was long before he spent his family’s fortune building the Odditorium. A model student, he was, dedicating his life to the craft. And very quickly—Well, what’s the saying? The student became the master?”
Lord Dreary scoffed. “Rubbish. No one can hold a candle to Penelope Pinch in the kitchen. And in my book, that’s the only magic that counts.”
The old man winked and toasted her with a spoonful of stew. And even though Mrs. Pinch tried to keep a straight face, she couldn’t help but smile.
“Oh, Harry,” she said modestly, and my jaw nearly hit the table. Harry? I couldn’t quite believe it. The old folks must be getting rather chummy to be calling each other by their first names. Lord Dreary had been a trusted friend of the Grims for years, but I wagered he never felt as at home at the Odditorium as he had these past few weeks in Mrs. Pinch’s kitchen.
“Anyhow,” she went on, “if there’s a lesson in all this, Master Grubb, it’s that everything happens for a reason. All those years ago when Mr. Grim began building the Odditorium, I thought he’d gone mad. But now that Prince Nightshade has reared his ugly head, I see that everything was meant to be. After all, who else but Alistair Grim would stand a chance of defeating him?”
“That devil’s still out there, and plotting something big, no doubt,” said Lord Dreary, and he scraped up the last of his stew.
I, on the other hand, had lost my appetite, for I was thinking about the real reason why Alistair Grim had built his Odditorium: to rescue Elizabeth O’Grady’s spirit from the Land of the Dead. It was Prince Nightshade, of all people, who let me in on that little secret while I was a prisoner in his castle. And even though Father’s plan had been sidetracked, for some reason my guts still twisted at the prospect of one day meeting my mother’s spirit face-to-face—either out of anticipation or fear, I couldn’t quite tell.
“Eat up, then, lad,” said Mrs. Pinch. “If only your old master, Mr. Smears, could see you now, eh? Why, blind me if you haven’t grown some flesh on those bones already.”
“Thanks to you, ma’am,” I said.
“Indeed,” said Lord Dreary. “At the rate he’s going, I should think our resident grub worm will soon be too fat to fit in his hole.”
The old folks chuckled, and then Father’s voice crackled into the kitchen.
“Are you there, Mrs. Pinch?” The old woman answered him at the talkback by the door, and a loud clang! rang out on the other end, as if someone had knocked over a stack of pipes. “Is Nigel with you?” Father asked, irritated. “He won’t answer on his talkback and I require him in the engine room at once.”
“I’ll fetch him!” I blurted out impulsively. I’d barely seen Nigel over the last week. Since he was the only one privy to Father’s plan, he’d been spending a lot of time alone working on something secret in his quarters.
“Oh, very well, then,” Father said with a sigh. “But please hurry, lad. Speed is of the essence if we’re going to get the Gallownog secured in time.”
“I’m on my way!”
And with that I dashed from the kitchen and straight into the Odditorium’s lift. I threw the lever and quickly ascended three stories to the upstairs portrait gallery.
Those of you who are familiar with my tale will remember how Cleona, being the trickster that she is, marred the Grim family portraits with swirly chalk mustaches and nasty comments about Alistair Grim’s spotty bottom. Cleona had since erased all that, but as I emerged from the lift and rushed to the other end of the long, blue-lighted hallway, it was the doors, not my clean-faced relatives, that caught my attention.
There were many more secrets at the Odditorium for me to discover, beginning with one of the rooms up here. There were five rooms altogether, as well as a closet and a washroom. Four of the rooms served as quarters for Father, Cleona, Nigel, and the samurai. As for the fifth room, the others refused to tell me what was inside.
As if reading my mind, the door to the mystery room thumped loudly as I passed. It was directly across the hallway from Cleona’s quarters and padlocked from the outside. Hanging from the knob was a small sign that read, SILENCE IS GOLDEN. This was not the first time I’d heard thumping on this door, but Father warned me never to tarry too long in front of it. He’d also warned me never to enter. When I asked him why, he said it was none of my concern. Fine by me, as whatever was doing all that thumping didn’t seem to want me around anyway.
I hurried down to the end of the hall, and a pair of samurai standing guard at Nigel’s door crossed their spears in an X to block my path. Father had a whole regiment of samurai stationed round and about the Odditorium. And oftentimes late at night I’d hear their animus-powered armor clanking down the hallways as they made their patrols.
“Orders from Mr. Grim, gents,” I said. “I’m to fetch Nigel to the engine room.”
The eyes of their scowling black face masks brightened, and then the samurai uncrossed their spears to let me pass. I knocked and called out Nigel’s name, but upon receiving no reply, I slowly opened the door and crept inside the dimly lit chamber.
Unlike Father’s quarters, Nigel’s room was sparsely furnished with only a bed, a small desk piled high with books and papers, and a couple of chairs. Covered with a sheet at the center of the chamber was a large, lumpy mass with all manner of tools and mechanical parts scattered on the floor around it. I must admit I was tempted to take a peek—whatever Nigel had been working on this past week was under that sheet—but given Father’s demand for secrecy, I resolved to keep my nose out of it.
Besides, something else had caught my attention.
Pinned to the wall above Nigel’s desk were over a dozen newspaper articles with titles like, ABEL WORTLEY’S MURDER MOST FOUL! and WILLIAM STOUT SENTENCED TO HANG!
Now, for anyone unfamiliar with my tale, the names Abel Wortley and William Stout will mean nothing to you. But to Nigel, they were everything.
You see, Abel Wortley, an elderly collector of antiquities and former friend of Father’s, was murdered a decade earlier, and William Stout, his sometime coachman, was hanged for the crime. William, however, was innocent, and so Father brought him back from the dead with his animus. William changed his name to Nigel and pretended to be his own twin brother so as not to arouse suspicion. And for the last ten years, in addition to building the Odditorium, he and Father had dedicated themselves to solving Abel Wortley’s murder.
Unfortunately, they’d had little to show for their efforts—that is, until Prince Nightshade showed up. Father believed that Prince Nightshade and Abel Wortley’s murderer were the same person. As to the identity of that person…Well, that was the big question, wasn’t it?
My heart sank as I gazed at Nigel’s things—not because he’d been framed for something he didn’t do, but because as a result he’d been separated from his daughter, Maggie. There she was, in miniature portrait upon his desk. The little girl looked much as I’d imagined her—rosy cheeks and yellow ribbons in her curly red hair. She’d be about thirteen now and was living happily with Judge Hurst’s sister in the country. Still I could never picture her in my mind as anything but that sad little girl who lost her father ten years earlier.
I soon became aware of a low humming sound behind me. I crept around the covered mass in the center of the room and discovered Nigel standing in the corner with a large, barrel-shaped helmet upon his head. The helmet was attached to the wall by a mechanical arm, along w
ith a jumble of pipes and wires that ran along the length of it. Even though the big man’s face was obscured by the helmet’s visor, the blue light flashing behind its eyeholes told me at once what I was witnessing.
Nigel Stout was recharging himself with animus.
“Is anyone still there?” Father called on the talkback. Startled, I rushed over and flicked its switch.
“I’m here, sir. But Nigel—er—well, he’s still charging himself, sir.”
“He should have more than enough power by now,” Father shouted—a bunch of hammering was going on behind him. “Just make sure he brings down that large coach wrench I loaned him, will you? And for goodness’ sake, chop-chop, lad!”
Father turned off his talkback and I dashed back to Nigel. “Wake up, Nigel!” I hollered, but the big man didn’t hear me. For some reason, I felt strange touching him in his present state, so I stepped up onto a chair and tapped gently on his helmet.
Nigel flinched, and then the helmet automatically lifted off his head and retracted back on its mechanical arm into the wall.
“Hallo, Grubb,” Nigel said, his eye sockets bright with animus. “Fancy meeting you in here.”
“Forgive me for intruding, Nigel,” I said, and quickly brought him up to speed on the capture of the Gallownog, as well as Father’s request for the coach wrench.
“Oh dear,” Nigel said, and he gathered up a handful of wrenches from the floor. “Gallownogs are not to be trifled with. Right-o, then. Let’s be off, Grubb.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” I asked, and I pointed to a pair of thick black goggles on his desk. Embarrassed, Nigel pointed to the helmet contraption.
“Head gets a bit loopy after all that,” he said, and then his face dropped with alarm. “Er, uh, you didn’t by any chance peek under that sheet, did you?”
“No, sir.”
“Good lad, Grubb,” Nigel said, relieved. He slipped the goggles over his eyes, and without a word more we hurried down the hallway, dropped three floors in the lift, and dashed into the engine room.
